Tuck me in
Universe, I’m getting tired again, will you tuck me in for a nap, tell me everything will be better when I wake up? Tell me this is just another pin on the map to my destiny? Tell me that my willpower is more than a slippery slope to the death of my dreams? Will you tell me that, when I break down, these tears form a stream to deliver the message in the bottle from my higher self to tell me this is all a presentation. A play. A movie. A blip in time. And that soon, these wages will wage war against the baggage I was made to carry. And when the sword strikes for the last time, I will understand that these grievances are really gifts not meant to be unwrapped yet.
I’ve come to realize that maybe I don’t dislike people, I’m scared of them. I don’t know where the end of self and the beginning of them should coincide. When there is a restless energy, my soul begins to shiver. It does not know that our two souls are separate. So when our timetable quakes and I am thrown beneath it while the other spirit isn’t, I feel disconnected. And when that soul decides to crash this jet because of an unfit passenger, the jets within me crash too. I can not separate an event outside from one inside, and this is where my cursor on a blank page begins. To put some of the inside into the outside and maybe they can find equilibrium in the atmosphere.
How far can your soul expand? What if it was made of clay?
The debate in my mind is between two sides who both lose. How do I make my family proud, when even my big wins are shrunken in my mind? The ratio of applause to disappointment is far too uneven. How do I stitch together my life in a way where it isn't always ripping at the seams from being so overwhelmed.
Sugar and silk
Some days I miss when the world seemed so big and the stars seemed unreachable. I miss piling sugar in my sweetened cereal, then watching the milk descend like silk into a porcelain dish. And that spilling any of it was my biggest challenge for the day.
elephants in the sea
So they say we live our lives recklessly because we don't have a sleep-rise schedule. They say we're a tribe of elephants playing in the sea giving an ethereal performance to the whales. We're just a spectacle to them. How many times will their chaos cause them destruction? But what they don't acknowledge is the world that comes from this broken binary code. It isn't perfect and that's the sheer beauty of our existence, right?
I am pulled back into this dusty garage, the stench of the moldy cigars now holding my lungs in a chokehold. What if I had chosen "How". What if I hadn't found this calendar in the first place. How would things have been different? I contemplate this before collapsing to my knees.
“He’s out there again. I feel sorry for him.” “He’s a creep. Don’t feel sorry Casey.” “He’s just a lonely old man.” Casey, Farrah, and I are gathered around my front window staring into my neighbor’s yard. His name is Alberto. He stares up at the sky every single night even during heavy rains. He says he’s one of the chosen ones. One day after celebrating our final exams being over with pizza and cheap wine, Casey mustered up the courage to take a stroll across the street to have a “heart-to-heart conversation”.
Elbow Pasta Spaghetti
Sometimes, this feels really really hard. Constant decision making is such a drag. I feel like I'm flying a plane with no aviation training, no license, no peanuts for my flight. I'm running on empty half the time trying to convince myself that guidelines are boring anyway. I'll figure out this adult stuff myself. Isn't not knowing the best part? My hands shake from my fifth cup of coffee as I think this.
So here's the thing about being an artist: your mind can never settle. The sprouts rise up through the concrete of this world constantly. "Look a new leaf" and you just HAVE to turn it, or the strongest variant of frustration will overtake your fragile body.
I want to be seen but no, not like that
I want to be seen but no, not like that. I don't want your eyes scanning me for potholes on pavement, for the sun on a cloudy day, for dents on your bumper. I want to be invisibly seen, or maybe I just want to be felt. Felt like potholes on pavement, making you bite your lip and curse. I want to be felt like the sun making a guest appearance on a cloud day; brightening up the gray in your life but only long enough to be appreciated. Things that stick around too long tend to become neglected. And I want to be those dents on your bumper you're too broke to fix; reminding you that the pain leaves scars. But you can always fix them, when you get the energy.